Remote Adoration
by UndefinableRandomness
Summary: London, England, 1857. Homosexuality is a crime, and relations between people is kept out of sight, out of mind. But when Mail, a confused young man, finds that special someone, what can he do to hide it? T. OOC at times. May be apt to change.
1. I

_~Firstly, I love the Victorian era._

_Secondly, I know little about the subject, other than what I've learned in my Social Sciences class, and Emma the manga. (Which, upon re-reading this so far, sounds a LOT like it...*sigh*) So forgive my...lack of knowledge. I tried to do research to the best of my power._

_Lastly, This fan fiction is, in fact, yaoi. Between Matt and Mello. It includes cross dressing, cursing, and the slightest, slightest bit of sexual...relations. However, if this changes from 'slight' to 'yes, they're having sex' I'll let you know. For now, I believe teen is the appropriate rating for this little innocent fan fiction..._

_Enjoy!~ Roxasnaminexx_

**I**__

The cold wind had knocked the hat off of his head and right into the chest of the unaware passerby behind him. Hands caught the hat as it made its way to the ground. Tripping over himself, he turned around without sight, bending down in a bow and mumbling apology after apology. The hands holding his hat remained tight around its rim. Mail figure it was acceptable to stand properly from his bow, and upon standing, saw it.

"I think you dropped this," he relinquished the object back to him, and he took it in shaky fingers.

"T-Thank you," he tried to set the hat back properly on his head, but knew it was a failed attempt, the wind having other plans for it.

He seemed quite upset with the unexpected delay, and crossed his arms at the waist. "If you don't mind, I have someplace to be, so-"

"Oh-oh of course! Sorry!" Mail quickly got out of the way, sliding on the wet concrete a few feet to the left. The other smirked lightly, brushing a piece of blond hair from his face. He passed, his singular footsteps standing out amongst the hundreds of others on their way. Mail realized, after quite a few moments, he was standing awe-struck after the trail he had left in the midst of a confused crowd. The red head laughed awkwardly, and tried to make it seem that was purposeful, continuing walking like nothing had happened.

His mind was swimming in the melted pool where his heart used to be; the hair, the flawless face, those two deep brown eyes that stuck out under long black eyelashes-Mail shivered. The details of that face stuck out strong against his retina, and yet that didn't seem to be enough. He wanted to see more of that face, more of that body hidden only behind vest and button down shirt and pants.

The idea of what was behind that clothing both pleasured and disgusted him, as his inner morality struck out against his sexual desires.

This is wrong.

Mail shook his head, thinking innocently that all those thoughts would fly away. To his utter dismay, they didn't, but only came back with full frontal force. He sighed, quite loudly, causing those to look around at him with peculiar expressions. He was having quite a reaction with the crowd: as if his bright red hair didn't cause enough of a reaction.

He didn't care though. Mail was much too preoccupied with his own thoughts, drowning in the image left behind.

_"Mail Mathew Jeevas. What do you think you're doing?"_

She wasn't the least bit too pleased with him.

"I-er-I mean-I was just-" The lack of reasoning behind his late arrival left him sputtering and grasping for words that had no logical explanation.

"You are late for your date with Miss Mason, and I accept you to apologize to her firmly. Do you understand me?" His mother wouldn't stand for anything less then utmost perfection. Mail was, unfortunately, lacking in that aspect.

"O-Of course Mother," that was twice he had made a mistake and had to apologize for it. Twice in one day; not a record by any means, but still, left him feeling quite insignificant. He left the entry hall, and entered the drawing room, (of which, always made him shudder, seeing the pictures of dead family on the walls,) and noticed the young woman.

She wasn't ugly by any means-and in fact was quite a catch. Her long brown hair fell down in a curly mess about her shoulders. 'Wealthy' was written all over her person, from the clothing down to the knowledgeable look on her face. She smiled lightly, draping out her long arm for him.

"Nice to see each other again, Mail."

He bent down, taking her significantly smaller hand in his, kissing the glove, "It's a pleasure,"

She seemed to smirk at his quaint attempt at politeness, and took her hand back, motioning towards the seat next to herself. In between the seats sat an immaculate tray filled with teas and cakes. His mother really paid any expense to make sure the two ended up together.

And that she ended up with all the money that came with it.

Mail took a cup of tea, sipping briefly at the drink he despised: he could feel his mother's gaze from in the entry hall. He shivered, feeling the hot, foul tasting liquid trail down his throat. The young woman next to him noticed, and leaned around to look at him.

"Mail?"

A cough could be heard from behind him, from the mouth of an upset Mother.

"Oh-er-Sorry about being late for our date by the way-"

She flipped some hair from away from her face, and smiled in that all-knowing way, "It's no problem, just don't dawdle on the way from work."  
"Right..." he sighed, and could feel the gaze leave him, satisfied to some extent with his apology.

They talked for a while in nonchalant melancholy, sitting in those two chairs and not leaving, not touching one another. Mail barely had enough guts to look at her, for fear of doing something wrong.

He was incredibly tired of these meetings, and wished the marriage would just present itself, and he could finally find time away from family. Family that only wanted him for the money that could come out of his marrying, family that would beat and beat on him in hopes that he will do better than them.  
He had already sunken so low that no amount of beating, torturing, nagging or otherwise could do to fix it. Mail was quite aware of it, and frankly, hated himself for it. He had tried to tell himself it was wrong, tried to tell himself that nothing good would come out of it; but he had no power in the situation.

_Homosexuality was a sin: and a sin he couldn't let go be cleansed of._

"Mail, you seem to be much more absent-minded today than usual. Is everything alright?"

Mail glanced up from the floor, where he had been previously staring at. He shook himself out of the daze, remembering the form of that one he had met earlier, and nodded."Yes, I'm sorry, it must be the weather..."

"Yes the weather really is dreadful, isn't it?" she nodded, taking a sip of tea, the fog of the hot drink flushing her face, "My maid was supposed to arrive and bring me an umbrella-but she must be messing around again..."

Mail said nothing, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the window opposite the two of them, looking out on the busy street they lived on. The young Ms. Mason glanced around quickly, and Mail could see her out of the corner of his eye. She looked towards the open entry way, and the kitchen, before smiling lightly. She draped her hand out to the right of her.

Mail glanced down at the hand floating right beside his side; what did she expect him to do with it?

"Well take my hand, Mail, no one's around."

A blush rose on his pale face, and he thought about it, worried someone would see. He stared down at the ground, brushing a few stray hairs out of his face. His hand met her's, and she nodded, glancing away, the tiniest remnants of pink left on her face. Mail looked up at her, wondering why he could not find this woman attractive; when there was a knock.

"Bloody Hell!" he jumped, the sound reverberating throughout the entire, silent house. He let go of her hand in a flash, and there was a look exchanged, before footsteps could be heard trampling down the stairs.

_Mother._

"Mail! What did I just hear come out of y-"

"Someone is at the door, Mother," Mail was calm and cool as could be, trying hard to not panic over cursing right in front of her. He could only thank God he hadn't been holding her hand as his mother came down-the result would have been disastrous.

"Right, right," she began off again, her heels clinking against the wood floor, "but don't think I've forgotten about that..."

Her voice trailed off, and the two of them could hear the door open to the right. Slightly muffled voices were heard, clear, but just barely.

"I-I'm here to pick Ms. Mason up M-Mrs..."

_That voice._

"Thank you dear, I'll tell her, just one moment..."

The door opened, and an elderly face poked in, the same red hair lining her head, "Your maid is here to pick you up sweetie,"

The young woman next to Mail nodded, and said a small thank you whilst standing up. She brushed herself off, and glanced toward Mail. Realizing the timing, he awkwardly came to a quick stand, stumbling as he did so.

"It was nice to see each other again, Mail."

"R-Right..." it was quite difficult to try and peak around her without the company noticing, trying desperately to see into the door way.  
It opened all the way, and a half-soaked maid came in, a bright pink blush on her face. His fiance seemed not too happy with her appearance, seeming unfit to stand near the two of them.

"Mello, you're dripping water all over, now get my coat from the closet will you?"

Blond hair stuck to the face, pale and small, brown eyes gazing out from messy bangs. She bowed lightly, and then glanced up while mumbling something-but Mail was too busy to try and figure out what it was; and as she saw him, she was much too busy to move.

_It was him._

Their eyes met for the slightest moment, and Mail could imagine, (to his most embarrassing day dream) the fireworks going off behind them. He smiled, ever so lightly, and the other, Mello, smiled in return, the sweetest smile he had ever set eyes on.

Time could stop, all Hell could freeze over, the world could end, and every one he ever loved could die in his arms-but he didn't want this moment to end.

"Mello-are you listening?"

The spark was gone as their eyes were drawn apart, and the frantic maid nodded, saying a tiny apology while she went off to get her coat.

"Well Mail, be sure to come visit me some time alright? We'll need a lot of time to plan the wedding and whatnot," she smiled, nodding to him as a befuddled maid came rushing in, her black dress flapping against her legs. The blond slid the coat on for her, and tried, more than anything, to avoid eye contact.

"O-Of course! Anytime you'll have me," he smiled genuinely, taking her hand in his and kissing it once more.

She curtseyed, and the maid bowed to the red head as well, avoiding any and all contact whilst doing so. They turned and left, Mail's mother opening the door for them. He could hear the rain from where he stood, hitting against the roof and against the head of the one he loved. She then closed it back, and footsteps could be heard.

Mail prepared for the pestering that was going to come; he prepared for the worst, for certainly he didn't care. He stood stock still where he was, his eyes staring into space, as if to see the face one more time.

_'Love is blind, and lovers cannot see, The pretty follies that themselves commit'  
_


	2. II

_~Per request, this fan fiction shall be updated very, very, frequently. D8 However, due to an amazingly horrid week, I didn't get this chapter out as soon as I would have liked._

_I hope to improve my writing as time goes on, so forgive me for my rusty writing abilities. I haven't written anything seriously like this in...a year and a half I'd say._

_(Except Roleplays. Lol.)_

_So enjoy! ~ Roxasnaminexx_

**II**

Mello couldn't believe, as his brown eyes gazed down at the paper in front of him, the words he was reading. All coherent thought was lost, except the words repeating over and over again in his head. It was the fifth time he had read it, and still it held the same splendor for him.

"Mail Jeevas..." he repeated the words out loud, the name nearing godliness, "Mail Jeevas..."

It had been nearing two weeks since their encounter, him and that one with the bright red hair. He had thought nothing of the meeting in the street, good-looking men were decently easy to come by for Mello, but as he met Mail again, in the presence of his lady, he knew it was more than coincidence.

The letter had arrived that morning, and Mello, being the only one home, had all day to re-read the letter over and over, and ponder any sort of secret meaning the words held. Mello was too intelligent to believe such a crude notion as love-he had seen love shattered right before his eyes and learned it was foolish; but the words stuck with him somewhere. For Mihael Keehl to be reading something with such audacity was proof in itself that it meant something.

"Admiration" was something mentioned fondly in the letter, and Mello couldn't help but smirk; trying to avoid "love" he could tell.

He knew quite well there was nothing he could do about the letter at this moment-or ever, to be precise. His master, Miss Grace Mason, was marrying Mail Jeevas, and there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, he was just a lowly maid, lower than the filthiest scum of the Earth because of what he really was.

As he let his mind wander, one hand swept absent-minded over the rosary hidden around his neck under lace. The feeling of ivory against his warm hands was that of a satisfying one, despite it bringing the realization of what he was.

That he really was a sinner.

He stood up, his feet having difficulty finding their footing as they tried to avoid stacks of things long forgotten. His room was one thing forgotten: hidden within the Mason's attic, amongst the large amount of items left for another day. All that he could call his own was a bedside table and his bed, with a picture or two, and his outfit.

It was quite degrading, having to wear such an outfit for such a man like himself; he really wasn't that goody-two-shoes everyone thought he was, and what he would love would to be himself. More than anything, he'd like to be a man again, (in the physical sense, at least), to be who he was proudly and be well off.

But no: times were tough, and he had been left with a harsh decision. Live as a beggar. Or slowly climb up the ladder in a facade produced by his feminine capabilities.

He was much too proud to do the first, but the second seemed a tad less degrading; thus leaving him where he was today.

He scuttled around the room until finally making his way out the door and through the hallway. Mello's brown eyes surveyed the room in all its magnificence, pictures lining the decorated walls and the carpet smelling of foreigners. He nibbled lightly on his lip, hating the way the air in here felt. It had always been that way, stuffy and unloving. Many people lived here, his master, Grace, her father and mother, and their parents, and finally, Mello. Mello, their insignificant maid, Mello, who none of them gave a damn about.

A deep breath was released from the blonde's mouth in utter boredom, and he made his way to his master's room. He opened the door, it squeaking to its stopping point, and the grander of the room lie right before his eyes. The bed dripped with money, and light spawned into the room. Next to the bed sat an antique desk, with writing utensils and forgotten old letters sprinkled around. Mello tip-toed in, as if his master would be sleeping, and sat down in the chair.

He picked up a pen, and bit down on his lower lip before dipping it into ink; he retrieved from the desk a blank paper with designs going down the right hand side. He tapped the paper with the pen a few times, causing ink to dot the page in three subsequent spots. His mind was lost in thought, debating how he should approach such a correspondence letter.

Words ran through his mind at super-sonic speed, until finally, some came through that made coherent sense. He picked up his pen, twirling it around in his fingers, before finally writing down on the paper:

_"Mr. Jeevas,_

_ Frankly speaking, I was a bit surprised when I saw you again for the 2__nd__ time, and knew you knew who I was. Keeping this in mind, I hope you realize that I am a man-a man, mind you. But that's beside the point, even if I were a woman you would have another problem concerning your feelings, the fact that you are engaged. How do you intend to keep this so called 'admiration' of yours intact when faced with two socially unacceptable things? Please keep this in mind next time you want to blurt out your innocent little feelings that life doesn't favor people like you and me, and it would be better for the two of us to keep our head down and forget about each other. _

_Mihael Mello Keehl."_

Mello wasn't satisfied with this, and after dipping his pen into ink again, he added a few more words at the bottom:

_"PS. Ms. Grace wishes to have dinner with you next Saturday. At our residence I believe: please be mindful that I will be there as well, and don't act in a way that you'll regret."_

There. He was done. The young blonde folded up the letter twice, and scavenged for the decorated envelope that matched the letter. He placed it securely in the envelope, and sealed it with wax with the Mason family seal. From here, he would send the letter and pray that Ms. Mason didn't ask any questions about who it was to or why.

He stood up; the ruffles of his dress fluttering about his ankles as he cleaned everything up in the un-orderly manner it had been before he began. He went out the door and back up to his room, hiding the letter in between his mattress and pillow. He would send it out first thing tomorrow morning, before anyone else woke up.

He glanced outside his miniscule window, and saw that the sky had been cast in a red-yellow gleam, sun sprinkling the rooftops. His masters would be home soon, and they would expect him to be working; working on the tasks he had to accomplish every day. Dinner would be expected to be on the table-and with that he hurriedly left his attic bedroom, down the stairs and to the kitchen, where he, a single man, worked on the food he made for the people he despised.


End file.
